Only A Fool Is Unafraid
by Palmviolet
Summary: Sauron reclaimed the Ring, and Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Pippin have been taken captive. Faramir, Eowyn, Merry and Eomer must find new allies to fight this new, stronger form of Sauron. Rated T for torture, violence, gore and mild swearing. I OWN NOTHING apart from a few OCs.
1. New Allies & Old Enemies

**Hi. I just wanted to try writing a lotr fic- enjoy! It switches around POV a lot- you need to concentrate.**

The Heir of Isildur ducks as an arrow whizzes above his head. Turning swiftly, he slices the head of the orc behind him, barely flinching when a hot splatter of black blood stains his cheek. He sees a large, lumbering figure at the edge of his vision and he turns to face it, keeping a look of arrogance on his face, though inside his thoughts are churning. He knows they can't win unless Frodo and Sam manage to reach Mount Doom in time, and destroy the ring.  
Raising his sword, he lunges towards the troll, slicing at its belly and darting out of the way before it can take a swing at him.  
But before he can turn, a stabbing pain in his side makes him fall backwards, and the troll's foot forces him down. Vaguely he can hear someone shouting his name- Legolas. Yes! Legolas! The thought spurs him on, and he slides his dagger out of his sleeve, violently stabbing the monstrous foot.

* * *

"The Ring is mine." Frodo's voice is cold, and as Sam hears it his heart fills with violent terror.  
"No... no, no, no!" It was all for nothing. All the pain, hunger, thirst, exhaustion... It was all for nothing. They'd travelled all this way, for Frodo to claim the Ring.  
He hears the sound of wings behind him, and coldness envelopes him like a cloak. The gardener sees footprints appear on the path beside him, as the other hobbit tries to escape the Nazgûl. Suddenly there's a slicing sound, and out of nowhere, Frodo's head flies over the edge of the ledge into the pool of lava below. The leading Ringwraith raises his sword, and Sam knows no more.

* * *

Thranduil neatly avoids the splatter of orc blood as the head comes away from the body, before glancing at the next prisoner. "Forward." He orders, and a guard pushes the orc towards the Elven King. His intentions are to question this prisoner, but without thinking he violently jerks the sword, severing the head of the orc. He stares into space, panic choking him, as the Eye enters his mind. As he stares, transfixed, the Eye morphs into the shape of a huge man, and Thranduil can see the glint of a Ring on his finger.  
"Lord?" A member of Thranduil's court asks hesitantly, and the King snaps out of his vision, giving a great shuddering sigh.  
"A great darkness has come, and I was too blind to see it approach." He answers gravely in Elvish.

* * *

The goblet in Elrond's hand shatters loudly, but the Elvish Lord doesn't flinch. He barely notices. His mind is on the darkness, that had been rising steadily for the last few years, in the East. The haflings had failed, then. And now Middle Earth is lost.

* * *

The troll cries out in pain and lumbers away, back into the thick of battle, and Aragorn sighs in relief. But it is short-lived.  
He sees a huge shadow rise up in the corner of his eye, and he barely has time to turn before he's thrown through the air, without anything touching him. Dread envelopes him, and he prays that he's wrong. But as he struggles to his feet, he sees the huge man in black armour, with glowing amber eyes, and a Ring to match.  
Sauron laughs, a cold, cruel sound that makes Aragorn freeze, and it takes all his willpower not to throw himself at the dark lord's feet and beg forgiveness.  
He raises his sword, and so does Sauron. When the two blades meet agony ripples down Aragorn's sword arm, and it takes all his strength not to drop the powerful weapon.  
Sauron is strong, and Aragorn struggles to keep the dark lord's blade away from his throat.  
"It is foolish to defy me." Sauron hisses, and Aragorn recoils at the voice that seems to scrape down his spine. "Bow to me now, and I will be merciful." At 'merciful' Sauron grabs him by the throat and throws him down. The Heir's head connects with the stones and pain explodes in his temples, and for a brief moment he wonders if it would be worth giving in. It would save many lives... But then he stops himself. Sauron is a liar and a cheat, and won't spare the men either way. This thought gives him courage and he manages to get to his feet, and he's just raising his sword when someone hits him from behind and he's knocked out cold.

* * *

Faramir touches Eowyn's arm briefly, before turning and starting to walk away, but a cry of "Wait! Faramir!" stops him.  
The Steward turns to see Merry, the hobbit, running towards him, an Eagle perched nearby. "What news of the battle?" Faramir asks hopefully, but Merry's face tells him all he needs to know.  
He shakes his head. "We lost." He whispers. "Frodo and Sam are dead."  
"What of Lord Aragorn?" Faramir questions, hoping for some good news.  
"Taken by the orcs, along with Pippin, Legolas and Gimli. Gandalf is missing too." The hobbit replies, and suddenly Faramir feels as if he's balancing on the edge of a huge chasm, about to fall in.  
Eowyn runs up to them. "It isn't true, is it? Tell him, Merry, tell him it's not true!" She cries, her voice betraying her hopelessness.  
"We must flee." Faramir says.  
"No! We have to fight. Aragorn and the others may still be alive!" Faramir is surprised by the vigour in which she spoke. "If we abandon them, our lives are not worth living. Would you, truly, leave your King to the torture and pain he will endure in the hands of Sauron?"  
Faramir looks at her gently. "Of course not. How many survived?" He turns to Merry.  
"Less than a hundred, and we went into battle with nigh on ten thousand." The hobbit replies, his voice grave.  
"We don't have the numbers to continue the fight. Better to flee, and pray that Sauron be merciful." The Steward continues.  
"I had not earmarked you, of all men, as a coward, but perchance I am wrong. We shall call upon the elves and women of the sword and shield!" Eowyn cries.  
"Women have never fought, and should never fight." Faramir argues. "The battlefield is not a place for a being of the house and home; leave the fighting to the men in armour, wielding swords."  
"Maybe it's time for a change! Would you rather we lived in peace, knowing we abandoned our friends to a lifetime of pain and suffering, or die fighting for freedom with our loved ones by our sides?" Eowyn finishes, and Faramir concedes.  
"Very well. We shall fight." He turns to an attendant, standing patiently by the door. "Find the fastest messenger you can spare. Send him to Mirkwood, and ask for King Thranduil. Get him to explain that Legolas has been taken by the darkness in the East."  
The attendant turns to leave, but Faramir stops him. "Also, get him to go to Rivendell, to speak to Elrond. He'll want to know everything."

* * *

"I will fight, Ada!" Arwen cries, her ivory hands in fists at her sides. "Let me defend our country!" Her voice softens. "Let me defend our people."  
"Arwen, you can't. What if I were to lose you? My daughter, don't make this any harder than it already is." Elrond says, his voice stern but then softening.  
"You are going to fight! I have as much right as you do to fight for peace! Just because you are older, and a man, you think you know everything!" Arwen storms out of the room.  
Suddenly, jagged red light streaks across her vision. Pain and terror fills her, and she dashes back to Elrond, sobbing.  
"He is in pain, Ada! Help him, please..." She lets out a violent shriek and Elrond hugs her close.  
He hesitates, before sighing. "You go. Fight. I know you will only feel right if you do." He whispers in her ear.

* * *

"Wake up, scum! Nap time is over!" Someone hisses into Aragorn's ear, and he jerks awake as someone kicks his ribs. He becomes aware of a nagging pain in his shoulders, and he realises that he's hanging by his arms, chained to the walls. Raising his gaze he sees the looming shape of Sauron with his back to the Heir, the Ring glowing on his finger.  
"Tell us what Gondor will do now. Tell us where they will go. Tell us everything." He says, in that terrible grating voice.  
"If you don't tell us, we'll have to hurt you until you do. Tell us!" An orc, presumably a general or something, screeches.  
"Patience. He will speak, when he is ready." Sauron rumbles. "You can have your fun with him until he does. Two rules: don't kill him, and don't impede his speech. You can do whatever else you like." With a growing sense of dread, Aragorn wonders what the orc has in store for him.  
Sauron leaves the prison, leaving Aragorn and the orc alone.  
"I am Helgurg. Remember that." Helgurg spits, before brandishing a length of chain. He doesn't bother to remove Aragorn's shirt before starting to beat him. The Heir refrains from crying out, managing to keep his lips sealed, with only the slightest grunt of pain escaping them.  
After the beating is over, he's dragged through long, winding, black stone corridors until they reach a small cell. Aragorn is thrown inside.  
He struggles to get up, and he glances around at his surroundings. He's in a bare cell, with nothing but two beds in it. It's 'joined' to another cell, in that there are bars separating the two rooms. Leaning over him is Legolas, who is rumpled but unhurt, and in the other cell Gimli and Pippin look the same.  
"You look awful," Legolas murmurs, helping Aragorn stand. For a moment the Heir forgets the pain in the relief of knowing that his friends are alive, but then it comes rushing back with a jolt of dread.

* * *

Thranduil watches the messenger shift uncomfortably under his cold glare, almost forgetting his worry in satisfaction. The messenger is annoying him.  
"Well? What message do you have for me, messenger?" He asks coldly.  
"The-the battle against Sauron has been lost, a-and Isildur's Heir and your son, Legolas, have been taken prisoner." The messenger stutters.  
"I think I know who my son is, thank you." Thranduil says sarcastically. His tone grows more serious as he went on. "For many a year this threat has been growing, and yet I have been blind to it. Now it has struck, and it is too late for me stop it. Now I must pick up the pieces." He pauses. "The army of Mirkwood will ride out with you."

**Glossary:**

**Ada- ****_Father_**


	2. Hunted In Our On Kingdom

**Hi. I edited the mistakes in the last chapter- sorry about that. By the way, I am incredibly mean to the characters. :) I stole Tolkien's toys and now I'm smashing them to pieces. Sorry!**

"Wakey wakey! Rise and shine!" Helgurg's voice calls in a mocking tone, and Aragorn blinks his eyes open quickly before the orc gets a chance to kick him. Legolas is already awake, and facing Helgurg defiantly.  
"What do you want with us?" He snaps.  
"Legolas," Aragorn says quietly, touching his shoulder. The elf shrugs him off.  
"We want you to feel pain." The orc laughs coldly, before brandishing a chain. "Move out, or you feel the chain."  
Obligingly, they shuffle out of the prison, and follow Helgurg, casting a despairing glance at Gimli and Pippin. They go deeper and deeper, and the heat intensifies until sweat pours off them in rivulets. Aragorn is handed a pickaxe, and shoved roughly into a mineshaft. Legolas is taken to a different one, and the Heir doesn't recognise anyone working around him, although they are all human.  
"Get to work!" Helgurg snarls, slapping Aragorn's shoulder with the chain. He grunts and shoots a glare at the orc as he stumbles over to the cave wall where other slaves are hard at work.

* * *

Thranduil glanced back at the rest of his company, the train of warrior elves leading far back into the trees. He shifts uncomfortably on his elk, hating being so cautious in his own kingdom. The threat of the spiders hasn't gone away, and there are many attacks on patrols weekly.  
Suddenly a tree crashes down in front of them. Thranduil leans forward, pressing his palm against the bark. A vision of creeping darkness envelopes him, and he sits up straight.  
"Spiders." He announces, and just like that, the clearing is alive with the huge, clicking, stomping beasts. Thranduil leaps off his elk and unsheathes his sword. It's a fine weapon, a long double-edged, two handed blade. He only hopes it will be enough. If they have to fight to get out of Mirkwood, what danger will lie outside of it?  
A spider looms over him. Bad move. He stabs it in the abdomen, and it crumples to the ground, but Thranduil jumps out of the way before it lands. Turning, he flings a small dagger into an eye of another beast, and the elf that had been pinned beneath it nods in gratitude as he moves out of the way. Thranduil just meets his gaze briefly before leaping back into the fight.

* * *

"Mellon-nín!" Legolas gasps as Aragorn is shoved into the cell. After the day mining in the blistering heat, the Heir had been beaten again.  
"Legolas, it is nothing." Aragorn protests as the elf gingerly inspects the bloody remains of his back. There is no need to remove his shirt, as it hangs in tattered ruins.  
"I do not call that nothing, Aragorn." Legolas retorts. "Do the orcs have no care for your health?"  
"What did you expect? Foul creatures, the lot of them." Gimli's scornful voice comes from the other cell.  
Pippin stares with a troubled gaze. "What do they want from us?"  
Suddenly, Legolas doubles over. Aragorn gives him a look of concern, touching his shoulder.  
"Mellon-nín? Can you hear me?" He asks urgently.  
Slowly, the elf stands up, looking worried. He speaks quietly. "It is Ada. Ada is hurt."

* * *

Thranduil surveys his army, relieved that the attack had been so brief. Only a dozen or so elves are dead, and although that is a tragedy in itself, he's glad that no more are dead. Many elves are injured, though.  
"Send the worst injured on to Rivendell. We will halt there for the minor injuries to be tended to." He decides, speaking to the nearest advisor. The elf nods and moves off into the ranks.  
When that party has gone ahead, they follow, after making temporary bandages for those with small wounds. Their steeds are jumpy, and so are the elves.  
"This is ridiculous," Thranduil mutters under my breath. "Hunted in my own kingdom."  
As they ride, he becomes aware of a slight ache in his shoulder. He ignores it. He's probably just wrenched it.

* * *

"Faramir," Eowyn greets, her voice laden with dread. He looks at her briefly before turning back to the terrible scene before him on the Pelennor Fields. The armies of Mordor are marching on the white city once again, and now they have less than a quarter of the men. They can only hope that the army of Mirkwood will arrive in time.  
"We must have faith," Eowyn says, as if reading his thoughts. "Without hope, what else do we have?"  
"We have each other," Faramir reminds her softly, taking her hand. Eowyn gives him a long look, before sighing.  
"Whatever is coming, I want us to face it together." She says quietly.  
The steward takes the hint. "I know it's not much, considering I'm asking you in front of an army that is coming to destroy us- somehow it seems too dramatic. But..." He takes a deep breath."I wonder if you would care to be my wife?" Eowyn throws herself into his arms.  
"Yes, yes, yes!" She whispers, her voice muffled in his shoulder. Suddenly Faramir feels a whole lot braver, facing the coming battle with Eowyn by his side.

* * *

"Imladris," Thranduil says, mostly to himself, as they near the beautiful place.  
"I guess we should be thankful we made it this far," An elf mutters, and the elven king shoots a glare at the offender. He should be punished, or at least spoken to, but Thranduil has other things on his mind, and an insolent elf isn't one of them.  
"Your wounded arrived safely," Elrond says, as a sort of greeting. "Are there any others who need tending to?"  
"Some minor wounds, here and there." Thranduil says, and then winces - his head has been pounding for the last day or so, and his 'wrenched' shoulder has been getting worse - he hasn't had a chance to see to it. He knows he's wounded, and he shouldn't ignore it, but his pride won't allow him to ask for help.  
As the head of the army trots into the courtyard, the woodland elves begin to dismount. Thranduil does too, but stumbles when he lands - his vision goes dark for second, and it is enough for Elrond to notice.  
"Thranduil, mellon-nín, you are injured." The elf lord says, his concern evident in his voice. Thranduil shakes his head, and immediately wishes he hadn't - his vision blurs and he has to lean against his elk for support. Thankfully, Elrond is distracted when Arwen runs over to him.  
"Come quickly, Ada." She calls urgently, and the elf lord hurries away. Obviously the elven king's wound isn't that bad.

* * *

A man doubles over, coughing. Aragorn glances at him in alarm, knowing any sickness will be met with harsh punishment. Helgurg marches over, brandishing the chain, which is obviously his favourite torture weapon.  
"Is there a problem here?" He queried angrily, glaring at the ill prisoner. He coughs again.  
The orc raised a serrated blade. "Sick slaves are no use to Sauron." He hisses, preparing to kill the prisoner. Aragorn steps in front of him. Recognition flares in the sick man's eyes, and surprise.  
"Get out of my way!" Helgurg snarls, striking him with the chain. The Heir refuses to move. "Move or I kill your friends, starting with the hafling." Aragorn inwardly groans, and steps aside reluctantly. He can't watch as the man's throat is cut.

* * *

"Dine with us tonight, mellon-nín. It may be the last time." Elrond says solemnly to Thranduil. The elven king is surprised by the pessimistic words, since Elrond is rarely so low.  
He refrains from nodding, the headache getting worse.  
"You look pale." The elf lord remarks.  
Thranduil sighs. "I am fine. I am unhurt."  
Elrond doesn't look convinced, but doesn't press the matter.  
They go to one of the many dining rooms in Rivendell, where Arwen is waiting. The food is probably good, but Thranduil can't taste it. His head is pounding loudly and his stomach is constantly churning, along with the permanent pain in his shoulder.  
"Thranduil?" He looks up at Elrond's question. "Did you hear me?"  
A quick shake of his head is the answer. The elven king feels as if he will be sick if he speaks.  
"I don't think you're very well..." The elf lord begins, but Thranduil barely hears him. His vision darkens and the room spins.  
"Thranduil!" Arwen's voice is urgent, but it only reaches him as a hazy murmur. His eyes begin to close and he feels himself sliding out of his chair onto the floor, and darkness envelopes him.

**GLOSSARY**

**Ada- ****_Father_**

**Mellon-nín****_ -my friend_**


	3. We Despair of Our Kings

**Hi! Short chapter today, sorry about that. Also, my OC (Avanae) seems like a real Mary-Sue right now, but she really isn't. **

**This is mainly movieverse, since it was ages since I read the books. However I am rereading them now and I will add things from them as I go.**

**Thanks to my lovely reviewers! Don't be afraid to type that review and tell me what you think.**

**Elladan and Elrohir have a part in this chapter, thanks for suggesting it! If there are any other suggestions, feel free to post them.**

**Also, I know my writing style is quite jumpy. I felt it was the only way, since there are so many POVs in this. (They are necessary!)**

**By the way, I'm hoping I won't give up on this fic. I have planned the whole plotline, plus a few sequels! (Maybe even a prequel?!)**

**WARNING- mentions of a grotesque mutation in this. **

A woman dismounts her horse, standing on the rocks for a moment, clutching the reins tightly. Her long dark hair flutters in the wind, and her navy cloak whips around her.  
Sighing, she turns and leads her horse on, narrowing her eyes as she emerges on the top of the hill, her gaze on the fierce battle taking place before her. As she watches, those in black armour- orcs, she notes, break the line of those in silver. A cry of triumph rises up from the orcs. But the men don't flee- they somehow reform the line and keep up the attack.  
A screech from the skies makes many soldiers cower and cover their ears, but the woman remains still, watching.  
A Nazgûl swoops down, picking up a few soldiers in its claws and dropping them, screaming, to their deaths. The woman knows this is her time to step in.  
She leaps back on to her dark grey stallion, and charges into the battle. She points her sword in the air, slicing at the great beast's belly as she races past. Wheeling around, she steers her steed back towards the Nazgûl, swiping at its throat. It flies down towards her and clasps her shoulder, and she struggles to free herself. An arrow embeds itself in the Nazgûl's leg and it drops the woman, and she rolls, wincing as she probes her shoulder. The Nazgûl veers away.  
The orcs flee too, and the soldiers of Gondor crowd around her.  
"Who's she?" Someone whispers, and is quickly shushed.  
"You'd better come with us." The leader of the group says roughly. The woman glares at him.  
"I am no prisoner. I saved you. Remember that, before you treat me like a captive." She announces. Shock crosses many of the men's faces, but they remain mainly silent, save from a few mutinous whispers. She's proud, and she knows that without that arrow, she's be dead, but she'll never admit it.

* * *

The doors to the hall swing open with a bang, and a woman strides in. She wears a silver tunic, with brown leggings and a navy blue cloak. The sleeve of one arm is ragged and cut off at the elbow, presumuably for the awful mutuation situated on the forearm. The skin looks as if there are rocks underneath it, making it spiky and rough. Her jaw is crooked, too, and has a few of the 'spikes' edging it. Her dark eyes flash dangerously, but her most striking feature is a scar that curves from the corner of her upper lip to her hairline, running through her eye. The eye in question is a milky white.  
"Faramir, son of Denethor! Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan! Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire!Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond of Rivendell! Eomer of Rohan!" She yells, her voice full of disgust. "How dare you? How dare you!"  
Faramir stands up, glancing at the guards positioned next to the doors. "Who are you? How did you get in? I warn you, if you don't give a good enough reason, you will be imprisoned as a spy."  
"Avanae, youngest child of Arathorn, sister of Isildur's Heir! And your men seem to be treating me as a prisoner already, without you suspecting me of being a spy." Her voice is laced with scorn, but it softens so Faramir has difficulty catching the next few words. "I had enough of that in my old life."  
"I didn't know Strider had a sister," Merry whispers.  
"You know nothing about my brother. He doesn't know I exist." She snaps. Faramir feels a pang of pity. She bows her head, sadness shadowing her gaze for a moment. "Not many people do." Her head snaps up with renewed anger. "When are you going to rescue your future King from the clutches of Mordor, may I ask?" Avanae rants. "And, by the way, it might interest you to know that the army of Mirkwood was on their way, but has had to halt, due to a spider attack. If you had won that battle, spiders would not be a problem in Mirkwood! It would still be the Greenwood!"  
Faramir's concern evaporates. "And whose decision was it to lead us into the battle at the Black Gate?"

Avanae glares at him, breathing hard. "Have a go at me, but not my brother." She says quietly. "I've had enough of people persecuting me, mistrusting me. If you think I'm an agent of Sauron, let me release Aragorn and the others. I can't do any harm if I am a spy that way." She suggests tactfully. Faramir grudgingly admires her spirit and wit.  
"Where do you hail from?" Eomer asks.  
"Oh, here and there." She looks uncomfortable. "I don't really have a home. I just... wander." She sighs, then adds quietly: "It comes of being a freak."  
Eomer looks suspicious, but suddenly Elladan speaks up.  
"I recognise her. She's stayed in Imladris before." He says, and Avanae looks relieved. "She's no spy."  
"Very well. Avanae, you can have five soldiers to go with you to Mordor." Faramir decides.  
"We're coming," Elrohir bursts out, and Elladan nods vigorously.  
"I'm going!" Merry pipes up determinedly.  
Faramir sighs, but before he can speak, Eowyn cuts in.  
"I shall come. I'd like to see Aragorn and the others released as much as you would." She says.  
"Shall we advertise in the street? Maybe that blackbird would like to come." Eomer mutters under his breath.  
Faramir ignores him. "Good luck."

Avanae, however, obviously shares Eomer's views. "It will be difficult," she warns, eyeing the hobbit through a narrowed gaze. "Are you up to it?"

Merry meets her glare challengingly. "Are you?"

* * *

Arwen glances at her father, her own worry reflected in his eyes. Thranduil has not woken since he lost consciousness last night, and his wound looks serious.  
It's a spider sting, but it's turned black and the skin around it is sore and inflamed. The elven king himself is pale and feverish, tossing and turning constantly.  
"This is no ordinary spider wound." Elrond murmurs sombrely.  
Arwen raises her gaze to meet his. "Ada?"  
He takes her aside, out of earshot of the others in the room. "He was stung by the spider, but it's not deep. He should have recovered, not gotten worse."  
"What are you suggesting?" She whispers, dreading the answer.  
"He's been poisoned," Elrond replies solemnly. "The poison on its own is harmless, but together with the spider toxins it is deadly."  
Shock crosses Arwen's face. "Do you have any idea who...?"  
Elrond shakes his head. "As for curing him, we will have to wait and see."  
"Could Mordor be behind this?" Arwen suggests darkly. "They may want to prevent allies reaching Gondor."  
"Lord Elrond!" Glorfindel calls urgently, having just entered the room to find Thranduil lying still and deathly pale. Elrond rushes over, and beckons with his hand for more herbs.  
"Come on, mellon-nín. You can fight this." He says quietly.  
Arwen sighs. She knows that the elven king might not see the next sunrise.

* * *

"Drop it there!" An orc hisses, and Pippin obliges, flinching. The iron clatters on the stone floor, and the hobbit turns to leave with his empty mine cart. "Make sure you go to all the levels!"  
As Pippin makes his way through the dark tunnels, he sees many slaves working on the mines. In some ways he's glad he doesn't have to, but carting the ore around is tiring work too.  
He goes all the way down to the deepest mine first, where the heat is most blistering and the orcs are more punishing.  
With a jolt, he recognises Aragorn as he comes to deposit the iron in the cart. The ranger gives a grim smile, and the hobbit feels a glimmer of outrage. Sauron has no right to work future Kings like slaves!  
On the next level up he meets Gimli, who looks slightly better than Aragorn. The dwarf is the most comfortable out of all of them in the mines. They exchange a brief look and then Pippin is on his way again.  
Passing many layers on his way up, Pippin reaches the one closest to the surface. He knows Legolas works here- he is awful in the mines, being an elf. He's coughing and the work looks torturous- Sauron can't care whether Legolas survives or not, as he wouldn't be making him work if he does.  
Sighing, Pippin reaches the room where he deposits the iron, and starts the journey all over again.

* * *

"I'm going to check the supplies." Faramir announces, using it as an excuse to stretch his legs. He does need to check the supplies, though. A siege is imminent, and they need all the food and weaponry they can get.  
"I will join you." Eowyn says immediately, and Elladan and Erohir nod to them as they leave the room, the twins poring over battle plans and maps.  
"I thought basements first," The steward suggests. Eowyn nods absently, following him doggedly.  
Faramir flinches when a memory comes back to him- a happy memory, of him stubbornly following Boromir around, pestering him until he let him try his armour on or play with his sword. A wave of bitterness washes over him, and sadness.  
"Well?" Eowyn's voice brings him back to reality. He realises they are at the entrance to the first of the many cellars in the city. This one isn't really a cellar- it's above ground, at the rear of Minas Tirith.  
He follows her as she ducks into the room, and he quickly scans the shelves, noticing with shock that they have less than half of what he expected.  
A sudden crash makes him spin around, and he sees with mounting horror that a beam has fallen across the entrance to the room- the entrance and exit. Where the beam originally was, rain is pouring in. Terror grips his heart as he realises that they're going to drown.

**As always, don't forget to R & R below**


	4. Unearthing Bad Memories

**Hi guys! Life has gotten in the way of writing, so this is later than expected. Anyway, enjoy! Avanae is really mysterious in this one- when I've posted the prequel, everything will become clear.**

**This chapter is quite short, sorry about that! Again, life got in the way. **

**-Palmviolet out**

"They've been gone too long," Elrohir says, worry on his face. Elladan nods.  
"We should search for them." He says, but Avanae shakes her head.  
"Not without someone who knows the city. We could be searching for weeks if we do it on our own." She says.  
An attendant steps forward. "I can help. I know all the basements of this place."  
"So now we're using servants as guides? At least it's better than orcs." Eomer mutters. "And now Eowyn's eloped with the steward. Great."  
"With respect, sir, I grew up in these halls. I know them like the back of my hand." The man says softly. The horse-lord rolls his eyes and mutters something Avanae can't catch.  
"Lead on," Elladan orders. The attendant nods and the group follow him through dimly lit corridors and stairwells, until Avanae is sure they are on the bottom level.  
"That's the cellar they are most likely to have gone to," The attendant gestures to a doorway leading off the corridor. Eomer nods and takes the lead, but freezes when he sees a collapsed beam baring their way. Avanae can hear faint cries for help from behind the wall of rubble.  
"Help me shift it!" Eomer yells desperately, running towards the beam and pulling at it in vain. A tiny crack opens up and water drips out.  
Elrohir gasps. "They must be drowning..."

* * *

Thranduil groans, blinking away sleep slowly. As he opens his eyes the first thing he sees is the intricate ceiling, carved like the branches of a tree, that covers every ceiling in Rivendell. He struggles to sit up, and pain washes over him like a wave. He grimaces.  
"Greetings, mellon-nín. How do you feel?" A kindly voice asks softly, and Thranduil glances at the speaker. Elrond looks tired and anxious, but a small smile is on his face.  
"Not good. What...?" The elven king tries to reach up and touch his forehead, but he finds that he cannot move his right arm.  
"A spider wound, Thranduil. A most grievious injury." Elrond sighs. "One that you neglected to inform me of."  
"How much time has passed?" Thranduil ignores the latter comment.  
"Three dawns you have spent here with us." Elrond says solemnly.  
The elven king immediately sits up straight, suppressing a wince. "We must move on! There is no time to waste."  
Elrond sighs and puts a light but firm hand on Thranduil's uninjured shoulder. "Not until your shoulder is fully healed. If you aggravate it you could lose the use of the arm completely."  
The fair haired elf sinks back onto the pillows, closing his eyes in despair. "We will come too late. Would I that we could reach Minas Tirith sooner, but alas! I have been careless." He thumps his clenched left fist down on the sheets angrily.  
"Tis not your fault, mellon-nín. The shadow in Mirkwood is a dangerous thing - dangerous even for you." The lord of Rivendell says quietly but with conviction.  
Thranduil snorts. "Mirkwood! How I hate it. How I long for the days when my kindred could wander Greenwood the Great in peace, without fear of the darkness at Dol Guldur. For a time, we thought there would be peace, when the shadow departed. But the dark creatures returned and now Sauron has risen once more in the East. What times we live in!"

* * *

A cry of "They must be drowning!" echoes in Faramir's ears, and he struggles to open his eyes. Blinking, the first thing he notices is that he's half-submerged in frigid water. Frowning, he tries to remember what happened. All he can surface is a crack, and then water everywhere.  
He glances to the side, seeing a fair woman lying unconscious beside him. Her long golden locks are drenched and her face is pale, her lips retaining a bluish tint. The steward has no idea who she is, but something inside him is telling him that she's important. Subconsciously, he reaches forward and feels for her pulse at her neck. It's weak and fluttering, but at least she's alive.  
"Faramir? Eowyn?" Someone yells, and the steward realises that the woman must be called Eowyn.  
"Can anyone hear me?" He shouts in reply, breaking off in a hacking cough.  
"Yes, can you push the beams towards us?" That's a woman's voice. Faramir struggles to get to his knees, and he clutches the side of his head as agony pierces through it. His hand comes away sticky and slick with scarlet blood, and his vision blurs as he tries to crawl forward.  
He knows he has a severe concussion, and the pain and memory loss is probably a result of that. What he doesn't know is how he got to be here, in the cold and the dark with water lapping at his ankles. The latest memory he can surface is of his father, and Boromir - his brother was heading off somewhere - where? Where could Boromir have been going? How long has elapsed since Faramir's latest memory?  
He slowly crawls forward on his belly, wincing. When he reaches the doorway, he sees a beam that could possibly be dislodged by some amount of force.  
"Stand back!" He calls, hating how weak his voice sounds. There are some murmurs of assent and then the sound of footsteps receding, barely audible above the sound of the rain.  
Faramir takes a deep breath, and then grips the beam, pushing as hard as he can. There's the sound of wood grating against wood, and then a big thump. The steward sighs in relief, but it's short-lived, as something collides with the back of his head and darkness claims him.

* * *

"I!" The chain slaps against Aragorn's back. "Will!" Slap. "Break!" Slap. "The!" Slap. "Heir!" Slap. "Of!" Slap. "Isildur!" Helgurg suddenly stops, and Aragorn breathes hard, savouring the short relief.  
The orc suddenly leans in close to the Heir, grabbing him by the hair, sneering in his face. "Just like I broke his sister."  
Aragorn stiffens. "I don't have a sister." He whispers, but he has a feeling that the orc speaks the truth.  
"Yes, you do. Oh, she was so easy to break. I made her into one of us! I enjoyed it." Helgurg cackles madly.  
Aragorn uses his remaining strength to pull himself upright. "You are monsters. All of you. Orcs have no place in Middle Earth, nor any other fair land."  
"Big words, human. What are you going to do about it?" The orc draws himself upright too, and towers over Aragorn, slumped and weakened as he is. Helgurg brandishes the chain.  
The Heir grimaces, but says nothing.  
"That's what I thought." And the beating begins again.

* * *

Avanae screams in frustration as the knife enters the wall again. She strides over to it, yanks it out and throws it in again.  
"You really should learn to control that temper." The voice comes from behind her. She turns.  
"Oh, it's you. Leave me in peace." She snaps.  
Elladan smirks. "No, unless you'd rather I told Faramir the rest of your story?"  
"You wouldn't dare." Avanae doesn't miss a beat, although her eyes narrow.  
"I haven't seen you since you left Imladris, all those years ago." Elladan smiles. "Why did you leave so quickly? You had barely healed- indeed Adar barely had a chance to wash the blood off your wounds."  
She swallows. "I couldn't stay. With all the pitying looks, and all the sympathy... Ugh. I needed to think."  
"I'm not surprised. You recovered from the trauma well though, all things considered." Elladan replies.  
"I had to. I had a lot of time to think, which helped." Avanae closes her eyes, grimacing, lost in a horrific memory.  
"Our spies say Helgurg is working with Sauron." At these words, Avanae's eyes snap open and widen.  
"I will kill him, I swear. No one else. It has to be me." Her voice is ice cold.  
Elladan hesitates. "Are you sure? Surely it will unearth... unpleasant memories?"  
"Yes, it will, but I am ready for them. I have had enough time to muse on what happened, and I want revenge. He will not torture anyone else- not if I have anything to do with it."


	5. Riding To War

**Hi people. This chapter is really short, but i wanted to get it posted. By the way, I have started the prequel to this- check it out on my profile- it's called 'Hunted'. **

**There are some new characters in this chapter, relations of Thranduil. His oldest child and only daughter, Varcia, and his oldest son the crown prince, Echuilel (means awakening). **

**I am also planning a story all about Thranduil and his relatives and their lives in Mirkwood- so I might put this on hold for a while. There probably won't be an update for at least two weeks, probably a lot more.**

**~Palmviolet out**

Avanae glances back at Elrohir and Elladan, riding noiselessly behind her. They left Minas Tirith in the chill of predawn, not waiting for Eowyn or Faramir to wake. They left Merry behind too, because Avanae doesn't think he could cope with the horrors of Mordor's torture chambers. She's not discriminating against hobbits, quite the opposite. It's because she was broken in torture chambers, and she's afraid she'll collapse. She's too proud. She holds her hand up to halt. They've been riding hard for four days, and the Black Gate is in sight. However before they reach it they turn their horses, heading towards Minas Morgul. That is where the spies say the captives have been taken. Avanae can only pray that they arrive in time.

* * *

"Come on, scum. You're not going mining today." Helgurg snarls, dragging Aragorn out of the cell. Legolas gives him a hopeless look as the elf is taken in the opposite direction, to the mines. The Heir ponders grimly the meaning behind the foreboding words as he's dragged into the room where he woke up for the first time in captivity. A figure is slumped, hanging by his arms from the chains in the walls. With a rush of shock, Aragorn realises that it's Prince Imrahil. He is forced into a chair, and Helgurg brandishes a knife.

"I always enjoy this," he hisses with a malicious grin. "What will Faramir do next? Our armies are advancing on Minas Tirith."

Aragorn shakes his head, but he's afraid of what the orc will do with that knife, and rightly so. Helgurg advances on Imrahil, who is staring at him with open horror in his eyes.

"I'll ask you again." Again, the Heir shakes his head, but this time in denial of the knowledge. He doesn't know. He doesn't know Faramir well enough to answer. With an animalistic snarl, the orc lunges at Imrahil and cuts his cheek. Aragorn flinches. Helgurg smiles and runs the knife lower, across the Prince's shoulders.

Aragorn gives in. "I don't know!" He yells. "I don't know."

The orc glares at him. "Fine. Let's see if Prince Imrahil knows the Steward's mind better than the Heir does." The use of their titles is obviously a mockery.

Helgurg unchains Imrahil and leaves him curled on the floor, before dragging Aragorn to his feet and fixing the bloody chains around his wrists. A sudden dread freezes Aragorn's limbs and he tries to resist, but he's too weak. The orc smirks. He raises the knife to the Heir's forehead. Imrahil flinches, but remains silent. Helgurg makes a small cut above Aragorn's eyebrow, and pain explodes in the area. Blood drips into his eye and he blinks rapidly against the rising red mist. There's a gasp from Imrahil. Aragorn wills him not to say anything. The orc traces a path down from his eye to his arm with the tip of the knife, and plunges it into his shoulder. Aragorn can't hold back the cry of pain that escapes his lips. Agony washes over him and he goes limp. He can vaguely hear Imrahil speaking softly and urgently, a low tone of despair to his voice. He can't find the strength to care, though. He's swimming in pain. He can dully feel someone removing the knife, and bandaging the wound roughly. The chains around his wrists are removed, and he immediately collapses without the support. He hadn't realised how weak he was before.

There's the sound of the door closing and locking, and Imrahil steps towards him. Aragorn surrenders to the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness.

* * *

Thranduil gingerly probes his injured arm, frowning when he realises he still can't feel anything. Elrond watches him silently.

"Are you sure this will work?" The elven king queries softly, a tone of anxiety in his voice. He's scared that he'll never be able to use his arm again- another permanent injury to add to his burnt face.

"Do not worry, mellon-nín. We have to try." Elrond's words are far from comforting. Thranduil sighs. He steps forward, wielding the blunt training sword in his good left arm. Elrond's attack is short and brutal and Thranduil is left gasping for breath. He hadn't realised how weak his injury had made him.

The lord of Rivendell steps back, giving Thranduil a moment's reprieve. The elven king shakes his head.

"Continue," he says shortly, and raises his sword. He blocks the first blow but Elrond's blade has force behind it, making Thranduil's arm twist and he nearly drops the sword. This jars his injured shoulder, and pain shoots through it. This is good, he tells himself. At least now he can feel something.

"Again," he mutters, and with the next attack, he feels his stiff arm loosening and, as an experiment, he tries clenching his right fist. It works.

"How soon can we ride?" He questions Elrond.

* * *

Arwen watches Echuilel (Thranduil's oldest son) and Glorfindel, chatting together amiably, in amazement. She has no idea how they can be so calm. It's as if they don't know that they're probably heading towards their doom.

Varcia (Thranduil's oldest child) rides over to her, an impressive, war-like figure. She smiles at Arwen.

"You've never ridden out to battle before, have you?" Varcia asks, more of a statement than a question. The Evenstar shakes her head. "You get used to it. If you're going to die on the battlefield, then you ought to make the most of the days you have left, right?" Varcia grins. "Live every day to the fullest, and if it's your last, you can't complain."

Arwen smiles too, put at ease by the older elleth's friendly attitude. She glances behind her quickly, at the long train of elven soldiers from both Mirkwood and Rivendell. Thranduil and Elrond have been left behind, to catch up later when the elven king's shoulder has healed.

Varcia tosses her long dark hair, the sunlight glinting on her ornate breastplate. She truly does cut an impressive figure. Her hair is loose and she wears no helm - only the intricately crafted silver circlet that marks her as a princess. She carries herself like a true royal, proud and tall.

"Varcia! I wish you wouldn't do that." Echuilel calls from where he is riding with Glorfindel. "Not in front of all these poor ellon."

She grins. "Do you find this," she strikes a ridiculously seductive pose, "provocative?" Echuilel rolls his eyes and Arwen grins, amazed at the nature of her new-found friend.

**elleth - _female elf_**

**ellon - _male elf_**


End file.
